


Better Daemons

by CaffeineGinger



Series: His Dark [Knight] Materials [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Batfamily (DCU), Gen, Young Bruce Wayne, accidental family acquisition, do not copy to another site, no beta we die like robins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:38:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24790183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaffeineGinger/pseuds/CaffeineGinger
Summary: Our better natures aren't angels - they're daemons.A.k.a. young Bruce Wayne (& the Batfam) in a world where daemons live, side-by-side, with their humans.
Relationships: Alfred Pennyworth & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne
Series: His Dark [Knight] Materials [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1793002
Comments: 21
Kudos: 60





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This universe is inspired by the books, I wrote it long before & have never seen the show. No real knowledge of either is required.  
> If you are brand-new to the concept, all you have to know is that everyone has an animal-shaped 'daemon familar' that is sort of an external extension of the soul; the familiars of children can shape-shift until they 'settle' in their final form.  
> Also, here's a link to [headcannons I've posted](https://daemons-not-rogues.tumblr.com/post/621308411583381504/dchis-dark-materials) about this crossover. Come yell at me about them [on tumblr](https://daemons-not-rogues.tumblr.com/)!

**Then:**

It starts the same. It always starts the same. Dad is talking to Hester, the grey and red parrot-shaped daemon sitting on his shoulder; they are wondering where the car is at. Bruce is ecstatic from the show, running on adrenaline and sugar from the box of junior mints his father let him have all to himself. His mother is smiling at his enthusiasm, listening to him babble about _The Mark of Zorro_ as he slashes invisible ‘Z’s into the air with his imaginary sword.

Sometimes, he is more in control. Sometimes, he is able to warn them. To demand they wait for Alfred inside. To run back to the phone in the lobby, to call a cab. It never helps; never saves them, in the end, but he at least can _try._

This is not one of those times.

They are in the alley.  _ He _ is there, too. Bruce wants to step forward, to somehow shield his parents, but he is rooted in place.

In the dream, the gunman gives no warning; unlike in life, he makes no demands. In the dream, as in memory, the gun barks twice. It’s what comes next that’s new.

At the sound of the first shot, the gunman’s daemon _screamed._ It swoops toward him now, the first bat-shaped familiar Bruce has ever seen, but he is still unable to move. The man has dropped the gun though; he is reaching out. Reaching – grabbing - taking his familiar in hand. Opening his mouth – opening wider than it should be able to go. His jaw looks just about unhinged, now. And -there - Bruce shudders. In the daemon-bat goes, and the gunman simply… swallows. 

Rhiannon is by his side, still in the fox kit shape she’d taken to attempt to mirror Arthur’s arctic coat. Together they watched as the monster began to shed the gunman’s face, becoming something half man, half bat.

And he’s growing now or, wait, no - Bruce is shrinking? His parents lie, larger than life before him, the pools of their own blood merging into one giant ocean of red. It’s fed, in part, from Hester and Aurthiriel as well, and that’s- different. In real life, Arthur was already gone, killed instantly with the shot to Martha’s neck. Hestor had wailed, fluttering and flapping about his father for a few brief moments before dropping, unconscious, to the ground. She, too, had dissipated by the time the paramedics arrived.

Now, instead, they are lying there beside his parents, appearing to bleed. And the monster-he’s reaching for their still forms. Bruce forgets everything, forgets how to _breathe._ There is nothing but panic, nothing but disbelief –

And then Rhiannon ROARS. Not a fox, not anymore-she is a grizzly bear, giant and fearsome and _rearing-_

And they wake.

Bruce’s fingers digging into Rhi's fur. She’s not quite the grizzly from his dream, only half that size with adolescence, but as they shake and sob, she shifts. The tiger has recently become her favorite nighttime form; her long tail curling around him as she tucks his head under her chin, whiskers twitching in the darkness.

They don't sleep again that night.


	2. A Night at the Circus

**Now:**

There are a lot of hard points that mark the changes in Bruce's life: divides that clearly separate 'Before' from 'After'. 

That night in September was the first. A transition point, from 'child' to 'orphan'. 

The summer Rhiannon settled was next, though it took some time for Bruce (and Alfred) to fully realize the... complications of having a daemon that didn’t always _fit_ in the spaces life left for them. 

That day in the airport in Barcelona, during Spring Break of his freshman year at Princeton. The boarding airships, one headed east and one west. (The exact moment, when he let the doors to the Gotham flight close without him.)

A chance meeting in Timbuktu, of all places; the woman, a mystery that just _ached_ to be pursued. The moment he learned the cost to Talia's apparent freedom - of what it truly meant to be _severed_. 

Pursuing a legend long since faded to myth. 

Searching out other teachers, other training. 

Returning to Gotham.

(Sometimes, the turning point is obvious even as he passes it. Others are clear only in hindsight.)

Bruce doesn't know it yet, but this night, this moment, will go down as one of the later.

(In the moment, he knows nothing but horror.)

Mary Grayson dies on impact. The great white swan that exploded into motion at the snap of the rope dissipates instantly in mid-air; if it cries out at all, the sound is lost under the shocked screams of the crowd. In the moment, Bruce doesn't know which of the performers has survived the fall; only that the other daemon, a nondescript canine, drops unconscious, tumbling mid-bound to the floor just inside the main ring. 

Silence falls over the audience quickly - there's not a gaze in the place that isn’t riveted to the still forms. At least, not until Bruce tears his away, glancing up until his eyes catch on the third, temporarily forgotten, performer. 

Like the rest, the boy's eyes are wide with shock; his daemon's limbs (all five, including her prehensile tail) wrapped around his head and neck like some kind of living headpiece. 

Bruce can’t say what draws him to his feet. There’s a ringing in his ears that drowns out whatever commands are being given over the loudspeaker. He only knows that, from their place in the front row, he and Rhiannon are halfway to the fallen couple - a bare step ahead of the converging medics - when it happens. The limp, prone canine form melts away. One moment, the ring contains two still bodies and an unconscious daemon; the next, merely a pair of corpses. 

The medics stumble briefly, then resume their forward motion - however futile the act. 

Bruce, on the other hand, jars to a halt. He is frozen for a seemingly infinite moment, before a horrible keening yanks his head around to the right. The boy, the _child_ , falls to his knees at the base of the ladder - he must have missed the second daemon’s dissolution as he climbed hastily down from the trapeze platform. His daemon shifts, from primate to proboscidea in the blink of an eye, grey-brown trunk extending upward as she trumpets their grief. 

The sound steals his breath away. It takes Rhiannon, pressing her considerable weight against his hip, to get Bruce moving again. Together, they pad softly toward the pair.

The boy doesn’t even notice their approach, lost in his shock. His daemon lowers her trunk, wrapping it around the middle of his hunched form like a desperate hug. She watches them as they approach, but her gaze is painfully empty. 

Bruce stops, just within reach. A glance shows Rhiannon looking as lost as he feels, her golden eyes wide with concern. After a brief hesitation, Bruce reaches out. 

Carefully, so as not to accidentally touch that wrinkled grey hide, he places a hand on the boy’s shoulder. 

It’s that photo, a candid of the four of them, that graces the front page of the Gotham Gazette the next day. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I thought about it but decided not to explicitly state what Rhiannon's settled form is, yet. There are hints a plenty, though. I'm _super_ interested in hearing any headcannons you have about what various DC characters' daemons would be!!


	3. A Range Rover in Your Future

**Then:**

Alfred pauses on his way to the laundry, taking a second to watch his ward. From the window, he can see the Manor’s pool, where Rhiannon’s massive form paddles lazily alongside the young Master’s more focused efforts.

This summer, unlike most, a hint of healthy gold shades Bruce’s generally pale skin, the product of his latest obsession. The boy has taken to swimming laps like it’s going out of style. As with most things Bruce takes it in his mind to do, he is hardly content to be merely _adequate_ ; the new routine could put an Olympic training regimen to shame. 

Master Bruce pulls himself up at the water’s edge, towels off, and drops onto one of the recliners in the loose-limbed sprawl of an adolescent. Alfred considers - and discards - the idea of going to remind the young master about his sunscreen. He hasn't burned yet, and it's an unfortunate truth that the boy only truly lets himself relax in his own company… or that of his daemon.

As he watches, Rhiannon, too, abandons the pool. From the neck down, the water has darkened her fur to umber, slicking her coat down to emphasize the lean muscle of her flanks. She pads around the side of the pool, deliberately twitching her tail to shower droplets of water on her person, before stretching out next to his lounger. Bruce turns just enough to shoot her a look - Alfred can’t see from this angle, but he knows them well enough that the mild glare will only be a cover for his amusement. Rhiannon chuffs in his direction, her laughter too soft to carry to his window. 

His face is creased with a fond smile when Alfred turns from the window. Suddenly, a thought strikes, and only the legendary fortitude of his countrymen prevents him from stumbling. 

“Pen, old pal,” he turns to the daemon striding at his hip. “When was the last time you saw Rhiannon change?” 

Penemue pauses, as well, the Springer spaniel raising expressive chocolate eyebrows in place of an answer. 

“Well." Alfred resumes his pace. "Alright, then."

Dinner that night is a new lasagna recipe Alfred prepped that morning, along with a generous side portion of green salad. Young Master Bruce is reticent as ever as he works his way systematically through his plate. They eat in companionable silence, for a while, before Alfred breaks the quiet.

"Have you more of the same planned for tomorrow? I dare say, Master Bruce, you have completed a marathon by summer's end." 

Bruce finishes his bite of lasagna, tilting his head slightly as he raises it.

"A marathon is forty-two point one-nine-five kilometers. Approximately 844 laps." He spears a tomato on his fork.

Alfred raises an eyebrow.

Bruce shrugs. "Passed that last week."

From beside the table, Pen snorts a nearly-silent laugh; Rhiannon flicks an ear at him.

"One of my school chums was an avid swimmer,” Alfred remarks. “He once swore to swim the strait of Dover - right across the channel to Calais. In fact, he went so far as to set out on the very day of our matriculation."

Bruce's eyes dart up briefly, the only evidence of his interest. Undaunted, Alfred continues. 

"I don’t believe he got more than, oh, a couple hundred yards from shore before his daemon forced him to turn back. ‘Edward,’ she told him, ‘you can keep swimming if you want, but I won’t be held responsible when you drown!’”

(“For a seabird, Kasi always was the sensible one of that pairing,” Pen comments aside to Rhiannon.

"Naturally," comes the reply.) 

"Don't worry, Alfred. I have no ambition to tackle the English channel anytime soon." He doesn't - quite - roll his eyes.

Alfred lets the silence hold for a moment as he eyes his charge. Finally, he gives a mental sigh. “And is there anything you would like to share, Master Bruce?” he queries pointedly.

(“Noticed, has he?” Rhiannon remarks quietly. 

“What do you think?” the smaller daemon returns. 

“It’s just, I’m not even sure _Bruce_ has. We certainly haven’t talked about it.”)

“If you are referring to Rhiannon’s form, it does appear she has settled,” Bruce remarks. Rhi’s head jerks up, and she blinks at him.

“I haven’t actually _tried_ to shift in a while, you know,” she protests, mildly perturbed. Neither of them mention what they’re all thinking; that the lack of an urge to shift is one of the signs. 

Bruce just raises his eyebrows at his other half, a silent kind of ‘care to prove me wrong?’ Rhiannon grumbles slightly, but closes her eyes. 

For a daemon, shifting is instinctual - so much so that it’s hard to describe the process. A child’s familiar can - and will - shift forms almost from the day they are born. No one knows how those early forms are chosen, not even those daemonologists who claim to predict all kinds of things about a person from their familiar - and vice versa.

Rhiannon has learned to take dozens of forms in her life, if not tens of dozens. There are some that she hasn't worn in years - like the Arctic fox, or African parrot - but she will always remember how it feels.

When a daemon changes shape there's no snap, no crackle of breaking bones like a werewolf in a horror movie; it's a smoother, more instantaneous transition. Her insides don't so much liquify as _sublimate_ for the barest moment, before following the new blueprint for limb and body, fur or feathers. 

She begins by reaching for the extra mass, but, for the first time ever, the task is a struggle. It feels like eons pass as she strives to gather herself in, constricting the contents of her skin. In reality, it’s no more than the blink of an eye; her form barely has time to go fuzzy before her shape _pops_ back as it was. 

Rhiannon drops her head down onto her front paws, a soft, rumbling groan spilling from her barrel chest. If she could _get_ headaches, Rhi would imagine this is what a migraine feels like. 

"Well. that was remarkably stupid," Pen says. 

Rhiannon huffs in annoyance. She cracks open one amber eye, angling a baleful glare at the perfectly poised daemon before sliding it to her human. Noticing his grimace, she straightens.

“May we be excused?” Bruce asks, appetite lost; whichever one of them the ache belongs to, they’re obviously both feeling it. 

Alfred gives the pair a careful once-over, before nodding. "Very well."

When Bruce stands, Rhiannon lumbers to her feet - quickly recovering _most_ of her usual grace as the butler watches them go. She rounds the table and butts his hip with her head, half in reassurance and half an expression of annoyance. 

The fond, yet exasperated look Bruce flashes after his daemon staggers him with a playful shove does not go unnoticed by Alfred. After, her ears flick back upright, their vivid white spots like eyes, ever watching her back.

"Alfie, old pal," Pen says, not without sympathy, "I see a range rover in your future."

The Englishman doesn't _sigh;_ there is, however, a hint of resignation to his thoughts when he makes the mental note:

 _Look up just how_ large _a full-grown tigress gets._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so!  
> What do you think?? Hate my choice for B? Love it? Tell me why in the comments (or on tumblr [@daemons-not-rogues](https://daemons-not-rogues.tumblr.com/))


End file.
